Post Coital Bliss
by TheAllPowerfulOz
Summary: Live Journal Kink-Meme Fill #5.


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**Post Coital Bliss**

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He was hovering halfway between that blissful, heated, almost itching sensation that heralded orgasm and the frustrating, almost painful tightness in his abdomen that sometimes made him wonder if he was ever going to get to come… When the unthinkable happened.

Malik had warned him not to pounce him on his desk. Not only did it muss his papers and spill ink and break quills. But it also, sometimes, like now when Altair had the older man doubled up, legs over his shoulders, bending him into a position that barely allowed him room to breathe, forget about moving anything other than his fingers, hips snapping, thighs burning, grinding-thrusting-fucking like they were teenagers—

And the desk broke.

Just broke.

The nails holding the thing together, simply tearing right through the wood, and dropping them like a landslide to crash, first into the chair, a hard unforgiving thing that Altair wanted to smash into a thousand pieces, then the very legs broken off the table, and then into the floor.

Now, if there was one thing Altair hated more than falling off of something in a graceless way, it was having sex interrupted in an abrupt and highly unwanted manner. Especially when he was so damned close to orgasm…

Malik also seemed to feel the same, and barely a breath was wasted between hitting the floor and Altair being shoved over onto his back, the other man climbing over his hips and in an almost violent way, shoving himself down again so quickly it hurt.

Altair cursed, eyes squeezing closed, hands gripping the other man's hips, feeling the fabric of his robes, still bunched and tangled around his belt in their haste, digging his fingers in to find purchase on the naked waist beneath, pulling and lifting while rolling his hips upward. Groaning loudly with each breath, a rhythm, like a chant while Malik curled fingers in his hood for leverage and began rocking quickly, almost impatient with Altair's slow, deep movements—

Their voices mingled. No taunting, no name calling, or arguing, just quick, primal movements and Altair turning his head mouthing at the knuckle of Malik's thumb until the other man moved it, plunging it between his lips for him to suck on like a temperamental child.

Moisture dripped, sweat rolling off his face, clinging uncomfortably to his upper lip and brow. Gluing his shirt to his back, glistening on his chest and waist where his robes draped open like curtains.

There was nothing in either of their minds but sex, but moving thrusting-grinding-pulling-fucking until they were both violently and blissfully spent, lying in a boneless tangle of limbs, linen and sweat in the floor.

Malik came first. Hard and wet with a sharp breathless cry, back arching, rocking back onto his knees and bouncing his hips quickly, head dropped backward, mouth open wide, whining, fingers jerking free of Altair's mouth to fist himself through it. And Altair's hands talon gripped the older man's waist, hips popping up and down quickly, the muscles in his thighs, buttocks and lower back screaming and quivering as the almost painfully tight heat around him twitched.

His fingers slipped and slid in wetness. Hot and sticky and he wondered how Malik was able to get so much cum all over the place. The man usually liked to collect it in his palm and smear it like war paint all over Altairs chest and stomach. Draw patterns with it and pin him to the bed until it dried and left itchy patches on his skin.

He continued thrusting, rolling his hips upward, shifting his feet, widening his stance for better support, and scraped his right hand up Malik's left side, collecting the warm stickiness in his palm and bringing his hand toward his face, eyes opening to slits to watch Malik's expression in these moments of post orgasmic hypersensitivity when the older man became a primal creature of pure sensation, the lines of frustration and annoyance that usually skewed his face smoothed, dark eyes heavily lidded and glassy, breath heaving.

Altair loved to watch Malik's face while he released inside of him. Much the same way Malik liked to watch his release smear around and paint patterns on Altair's skin, or on the occasions Altair found himself at the other man's mercy, liked to watch himself moving in and out of the younger Master's body.

Altair's fingers spread and his tongue came out from between swollen lips, wet and pink and swiped across his palm, diving between his fore and middle fingers obscenely—

The salty coppery taste stunned him for a moment, and his mind split. Half of him wondering why Malik's released tasted like blood, while the other half was chanting its impending release and guiding his hips in their slow, rolling dance…

Then his eyes trailed down the length of Malik's torso and he saw the red smears and dripping gore—

There were only three occasions in which Malik had heard Altair scream, all of them because the younger man had been wounded in some way. An arrow in his thigh while fleeing guards, a dislocated shoulder, or the instance where he'd been knocked backward through the roof entrance of the Jerusalem bureau by a startled flock of pigeons, caught his hood on a loose nail and injured his neck. (Malik had been terrified he'd broken his neck when he'd found him lying there, and when he'd tried to lift his head to put a cushion under it the sound Altair had released had been enough to turn his blood cold in his veins.)

It was never a loud sound. Choked and usually muffled because he pressed his teeth into the leather of his bracer, or the fabric of his sleeve and clamped down like a mad dog. But when Altair opened his eyes, tongue slick with Malik's blood, and realized where that blood was coming from…

He shrieked. A quick sharp noise like he'd been kicked in the stomach and Malik found himself dumped rather roughly onto the rug on his back, Altair slipping from his body in an unpleasant manner to turn his head, coughing, hacking, spluttering and spitting as if he'd got a mouthful of rotten milk. Practically howling in distress.

He growled at the younger man in irritation and tried to pull him back down, some deep hidden part of him wanting to feel that warm burst of the other man's climax, wanting to feel it-hold it-within him, feel it running slowly out again to drip and stick to the insides and backs of his thighs but instead there was Altair on his knees beside him, robes hanging open, that lovely jutting cock of his quickly deflating without having given Malik what he wanted.

He felt spiteful for a moment and wanted to slap it. Grab and squeeze and make Altair squeal until he could remount the younger man and ride him into the floor like he should be doing…

But Altair was jabbering in a high pitched voice, yanking at his robes and pressing them tightly against the stump of Malik's arm.

"What are you doing!" He managed to grind out through his teeth, pushing at Altair.

Golden eyes were wide, pupils dilated and not by pleasure. His mouth moved, lips pale, and for a moment it looked like he might be sick. "Blood-BLOOD! You're bleeding! Oh, GOD what did I do!"

Malik rolled his eyes back into his head in frustration and flopped bonelessly against the floor with a loud groan.

This though, seemed to put Altair into a full blown panic and he grabbed Malik by the shoulders and shook him; "DON'T PASS OUT!"

Malik snarled and flailed, pushing at his chest and face and shouted to be heard above the frantic jabbering; "I'm not passing out, you stupid novice! I'm FINE!" He twisted and managed to draw a knee to his chest, press his foot against Altair's shoulder and shove him away.

Altair rocked back to sit on his feet, naked as the day he'd been born, hands twisting and wringing against one another under his chin. Eyes locked unblinkingly on Malik's left shoulder.

Malik winced as he sat up, groaning at the delicious burning ache in his back side, feeling himself throb in satisfaction because of it, and started pulling at the ruined robes Altair had tangled around his stump.

As the wound was exposed Altair moaned and when Malik glanced up at him, he'd turned a grayish green color beneath his tan. He shook his head and turned back to inspecting it.

The healers who had severed his arm had been somewhat sympathetic it seemed, having done everything they could to leave as much functioning arm to him as possible. Which considering the appendage stopped a few inches above where his elbow should have been, wasn't much of a concession, but none the less, it could have been much-MUCH worse.

There were three sets of scars, a slash across his bicep from one of the many stab wounds that had caused the arm such hideous injury, a crescent shaped one where flesh had been folded over the amputation wound and stitched, and a smaller scar slashing through this, the only wound he'd received in the battle to win back Masyaf from their treacherous master.

It seemed this scar, the freshest of the three, had been torn open when they had tumbled off the table and collided with Malik's high backed chair because Altair had decided yet again, to pounce on him on his desk.

Malik was concerned, but not nearly to the degree that Altair was. There was very little damage, and what was damaged could be mended with a few quick stitches and a week with thicker bandaging than he normally wrapped the stump with.

This fact though, didn't seem to keep the wound from bleeding heavily and quickly. Dripping between his fingers and running up his forearm to dribble off his elbow. When he glanced back up at Altair, the young master was swaying, his skin taken an ashy tint and his eyes were rolling in circles in his head.

"What's this… You can survive being stabbed in the chest, shot, beaten. You cut down men without a blink of an eye, and NOW you find yourself swooning over a little blood?"

Altair answered only in a loud, low moan, hand raising to cover his stomach, lips pursing tightly.

Malik's mouth quirked to the side, brow cocking upward over his dark eyes. Part of him wanted to tell Altair that this wasn't the first time he'd bumped it on something and caused bleeding, and it would slow and stop in a few moments, the flesh was just rich with blood vessels because scar tissue was thinner—But, with a devious inward grin he spoke;

"May this be a lesson as to why you should not swoop down on someone on their desk!"

Altair closed his eyes tightly and nodded, voice thick with barely withheld nausea. "Yes, Malik."

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End file.
